~ The Unofficial Burryman ~

The sun shone in a clear blue sky on the morning of the big day. It promised to be a hot one; perhaps a bit too hot for us, especially for Muldy under the weight of all those burrs, but better than rain, that was for sure. Unusually for me and miraculously for the wee Hippy, we had both managed to be up and about very early. So there we were chapping at Muldy’s door just after nine o’clock. That would give us plenty of time to help Muldy get ready for the start of the unofficial Burryman’s walk at ten, which would be a whole hour before the official Burryman was due to depart from the Ferry Arms.

As befitting the attendants of the Burryman, Lenny and I were wearing our wedding-cum-funeral dark suits, together with white shirts and black ties. We had decided to make ourselves look a bit more interesting, though, so we were also sporting porkpie hats and sunglasses. Lenny’s baseball boots spoiled his image somewhat, but he had made the effort at least.

One of Muldy’s kids opened the door and led us through to the living room. Already wearing his two pairs of long johns and his Army boots, Muldy was standing with his legs apart in the middle of the room. Trish, his wife at the time, was on her knees in front of him with her head buried in his crotch, looking for all the world as if she was giving him a blowjob. But then she stood up, red-faced, to reveal the flap of cloth she had been pinning above the open ballops of the long johns; something no doubt concocted by Muldy to make it easier for him to go for a pee when he was on walk-about.

While Trish went off to make tea and bacon rolls, Lenny and I set about covering the long johns, including Muldy’s cat-flap contraption, with the panels of burrs. Except for the occasional ‘Ouch, ya cunt!’ from Muldy, when the odd burr pierced through the layers of cloth to prick his skin, we completed the job quite efficiently.

Then it was time to tie the sash round Muldy’s waist. Instead of a Scottish lion rampant flag, though, Muldy had managed to get hold of an old Irish rebel flag – the kind with a big golden harp on a green background – which we wrapped round him so that the harp was prominent in the middle of his waist.

After a break for the tea and rolls, we helped Muldy put on a pair of white gloves, a mask with eye and mouth slits (made by Trish from a couple of balaclavas) and the Burryman’s hat. The hat was more of an old, battered felt thing than a bowler, but Muldy had made a good job of covering it completely with small, bright yellow flowers, which Lenny insisted were marigolds.

Once we had smothered in burrs what remained visible of the mask, our final task was to place in Muldy’s hands the two flower poles he had prepared. While the poles themselves looked like the hastily sawn-off tops of broom handles, the flowers that adorned them were much more impressive: two beautiful bouquets of tall white lilies. I had a vague notion of having seen those lilies and the marigolds before, but I couldn’t place where.

So that was Muldy ready for the ceremony. I was pretty sure he hadn’t planned it that way, but the unofficial Burryman had become a vision in green, white and gold, a Fenian spectacle that was bound to further infuriate those Bluenose bigots from the Ferry Arms.

It had just gone ten o’clock when Lenny and I led Muldy along his front garden path and out into the street, where he was greeted with cheers and whistles from the assembled crowd. That crowd was quite a surprise, man! I didn’t know about Muldy and Lenny, but it had me choking back the tears. In addition to a bunch of Crossroads folk and their kids, they were all there: Beastie and Peanuts, wee Billy and his mates from the chicken factory, big Wheels, Madge and Charlie on their way to get the Forth ready for opening, and even Mad Mick O’Flaherty, towering over everyone and looking the calmest I had ever seen him.

And it was clear that all the unofficial Burryman’s bodyguards and helpers hadn’t just turned up; they had gone the extra mile. Beastie and Peanuts had taken their Hell’s Angels’ leathers out of retirement and managed to squeeze into them, adding aviator shades to complete their image. Billy and the five members of his gang all wore green-and-white-hooped tee-shirts à la Celtic football strip, and each of them carried by their strings not one, but two, collection tins, obviously furnished by the bold Muldy. Then there was Wheels, definitely not forgetting Wheels: not only was he wearing a green tartan kilt, true to his promise, and a Tam o’ Shanter to match, he was also carrying a full set of bagpipes!

‘Didnae ken ye could play the pipes, Wheelsie,’ I heard Charlie shout out.

We were in the process of organising ourselves into a procession when I happened to take a second look at those collection tins. Their shape seemed very familiar. Then I realised they were the same extra-large cans of lager that Muldy had insisted we drink the day before. The sly get had removed the pull-tabs, widened the slots at the top, pierced holes in the rims for string to be threaded through and covered the outside of the cans with sticky white paper. Handwritten on the paper were two lines in block capitals. The first read: FOR CHARITY. And the second: FERRY FARE COMMITEE. Fucking Muldy, I smiled to myself. Spelling had never been one of his strong points, but I supposed no-one would notice.

Minutes later, acting on Muldy’s muffled shout of ‘Let’s rock and roll, soldiers!’, probably the strangest procession the Ferry had ever witnessed got underway. It was led by a big, wild-looking piper in a green kilt, playing what I think was meant to be Scotland the Brave. Behind him came the Unofficial Burryman, dressed like a Fenian mascot, supported by the Blues Brothers and flanked on each side by a burly Hell’s Angel. Behind them was a bunch of noisy, young Celtic supporters. And bringing up the rear was a crowd of mostly children, dwarfed by a serene giant who by then had put on the earphones of his Walkman, presumably to drown out the awful wailing coming from the front.

Now Wheelsie’s rendition of Scotland the Brave may not have been the prettiest of sounds, but it did succeed in bringing the locals out into the streets. Before the procession left the Crossroads, it had halted several times to enable Muldy to receive the traditional gift to the Burryman of a nip of whisky, which he had to suck up through a straw each time. More importantly, that other traditional gift of money was dropping into the collection tins in good style.

As we climbed the hill out of the Crossroads on our way to the back of the town, our next stop was at the Chapel, outside of which Father O’Brien and his housekeeper stood beaming and waving at the procession. Forgetting the fact that he hadn’t seen the inside of a church since he was a boy, Muldy, with a lot of help from his attendants, made a clumsy sign of the cross, a gesture which almost brought a tear to the Father’s eye. That scene was fucking surreal, man!

Then it was up past the posh houses on Kirkliston Road, where no-one seemed much interested in the procession, and into the warren of housing schemes that dominated the top end of the Ferry. We made a beeline for the little shopping centre, where we would find the first pub on our route. There was more wailing from Wheels on the way there, more nips of whisky for Muldy and more cash dropping into the collection tins.

Walking and supporting the Burryman’s arms was hot, thirsty work for his attendants, so we were more than pleased to reach the pub and enter its cool interior for a refreshing pint of lager. The proper name of the pub was The Queen’s Retreat, but it was known more affectionately by us Ferry folk as The Queer’s Retreat on account of wee George, the manager, who was camper than a row of tents and whose gay friends from Edinburgh were always hanging about the place.

Still gripping the bottom of the poles to hold up Muldy’s arms, Lenny and I stood at the counter with him and drank our pints with our free hands. Even though he was already half-jaked, Muldy insisted on having a pint as well, which he proceeded to hoover up with a straw. Not only was the pub cool, it also had a really friendly atmosphere and some good craic going down, so naturally that one pint turned into two and then three. We were almost finished the third when Muldy uttered those ominous words, ‘I’m needin’ tae go fur a pish, men.’

We promptly walked Muldy towards the gents, but halfway there he added, ‘Now wan o’ yous’ll need tae haud the flap up, while the other pulls oot ma Johnson an’ points it in the right direction.’

Encouraged by shouts and whistles from others in the pub, we handed the poles to George and his ‘friend’, who led an unresisting Muldy into the gents. A couple of minutes later, there was a massive cheer as the three of them returned.

‘Mission accomplished,’ shouted Muldy, while Wee George and his mate just beamed like Cheshire cats.

With the poles back in our hands, Lenny and I were marching Muldy towards the exit when his legs buckled momentarily.

‘Nae mair fuckin’ lager,’ Lenny hissed into one of Muldy’s ears.

‘And nae mair fuckin’ whisky,’ I hissed into the other.

The three of us walked back into the sunshine, quickly followed by our entourage. Quite a crowd of local people had gathered on the pedestrian precinct outside. While we stood posing for those with cameras, Billy and his crew wasted no time in harassing the rest for donations.

Then it was time to re-form into a procession and move off. With his bagpipes beginning to drone and squeal again, Wheels led us towards the end of the precinct, but a car – a private cab – drew up across the exit, blocking his way and bringing the procession to a halt.

My heart sank when I recognised the cab. It belonged to Jimmy Riddle, one of the chief thugs from the Ferry Arms, who ran a local taxi service and who had been the previous year’s official Burryman. Sure enough, Jimmy stepped out from the driver’s side and his short-arsed sidekick, Wullie Laverty, from the passenger side. As always, both of them wore kilts, Jimmy’s straining around his oversize girth and wee Wullie’s far too big for his skinny shanks. As far as I was concerned, they were a couple of wannabe clansmen who looked more like Laurel and Hardy in dresses than Highlanders.

The response from Wheels had Wullie scuttling behind his fat friend and hero.

‘I’ll gie ye Pied Piper in a minute, ya cheeky cunt,’ he retorted, brandishing his bagpipes like a weapon, ‘when I stick these pipes up yer scrawny wee arse.’

‘Damned fine turn of phrase, that man,’ slurred Muldy.

By that time, the three occupants of the cab’s back seat had emerged to stand alongside Jimmy and Wullie. I recognised Tossle McLuckie, a celebrated Ferry waster and chancer, and his big galoot of a younger brother, Shuggie, ditto waster and chancer, who was twice the size of Tossle. The third guy was a stranger, though. Like the other two, he wore a suit, a grey one to match the colour of his cropped hair and the deathly pallor of his face. But the most noticeable thing about him was his scary eyes: pale blue, cold and piercing. When I saw them, I suddenly understood what people had meant when they talked about Sicilian eyes, the eyes of an assassin.

It wasn’t just the stranger’s eyes that were scary. The whole situation was scary. Beastie and Peanuts had moved up to join Wheels. I could sense that Tossle, Shuggie and the stranger were about to launch into them. His fists balled, Jimmy had his sights set on Muldy. We’re fucking toast now, I thought to myself. And that was when the Polis turned up.

The Panda car stopped on the far side of the cab. Out of it came a Sergeant, who was built like a brick shithouse, and a younger, stony-faced WPC, who also looked like she could handle herself. They went straight for Jimmy Riddle and company.

‘Right, gentlemen, I want you to return to your vehicle and drive off,’ the Sergeant demanded. ‘You are breaking the law by causing a public obstruction.’

He tapped the portable radio on his belt and added, ‘Do not let me call for back-up, gentlemen. Or I promise you’ll all spend the weekend in the cells. So make up your minds. Drive off now or take a wee, escorted trip to the High Street in Edinburgh.’

Jimmy was the first to back down. A confrontation with us was obviously less important than having his taxi impounded and his licence withdrawn. He shot Muldy, the Fenian Burryman, a last hate-filled look before heading back to his cab. Wee Wullie scurried behind him. After a few moments of hesitation, Tossle and Shuggie also returned to the cab. But the stranger was in no hurry. He looked at each of us in turn, memorising our faces – me, then Muldy, Lenny, Peanuts, Wheels and last Beastie, on whom his gaze lingered.

The Sergeant looked nervous. It was as if he knew who the man was and what he was capable of. He placed a hand on the top of his baton, ready to draw it from its holster. The WPC followed suit.

‘Sir?’ the Sergeant asked quietly. ‘Please?’

Those cold blue eyes swept over our faces again. The stranger smiled.

‘You ken that yous ur a’ deid men, eh?’ he said.

Then, without looking at or even acknowledging the Polis, he turned his back and joined the others in the cab.

While the WPC moved the Panda out of the cab’s way, the Sergeant made sure we all stayed where we were. Once the cab had gone, his face softened momentarily and he gave us a big wink before walking off to the Panda. The Panda drove away, but stopped less than a hundred feet up the road. The Polis were obviously intent on keeping an eye on us. Trouble had been averted, but maybe only for the time being.

We re-grouped into a much tighter formation than before, with Beastie right next to Lenny, Peanuts at my side and Wheels only a step ahead of us. Billy and his crew were now also close behind. It felt like we were under siege.

‘Aye, he’s a scary cunt, right enough, young Dan,’ Peanuts nodded. ‘You’ll no’ ken him cos you wid’ve been in short troosers the last time he wis in the Ferry. He’s the auldest o’ the McLuckie brothers. He’s cried James. An’ he’s been away in England servin’ time fur murder.’

‘Hacked some poor cunt tae death doon in London, I heard tell,’ Beastie shouted across to us. ‘Cunt’s bad news. A fuckin’ psycho.’

A shiver ran through me as the procession got underway again. When we had almost reached the Panda car, it started up and pulled out, only to drive slowly a few yards in front of us. The Unofficial Burryman had a Polis escort! It was another one of those surreal moments. It was also the first time in my life I was glad to see the pigs so near.

We resumed our route, but our progress was a much quieter affair. There were fewer attempts at Scotland the Brave by Wheels, fewer stops for photos and definitely no more wee drams for Muldy to sook up. At the same time, however, the rate of donations didn’t let up: the local folk were as keen as ever to drop money – notes, as well as coins – into the collection tins for the sake of ‘charity’. And that was what the scam was all about, after all, wasn’t it? Muldy, Lenny and me – we were going to be rolling in it, weren’t we?

The Panda car stayed with us all the way through the housing schemes and down to Station Road, where it turned right with a peep of its horn and sped off towards Edinburgh, leaving us to face the last leg of the route unescorted. Before we could return to the High Street, we would have to negotiate the long, narrow, winding footpath that we called the Back Braes. Well away from any houses, dark in places, it was the perfect spot for an ambush if the thugs were still after us. With the sole exception of Mad Mick, all the followers we had picked up at the Crossroads and afterwards had melted away by then. Still listening to his Walkman, still looking serene, Mick was there – in body, if not in spirit. And that at least was a wee bit of added comfort to me.

Apart from a brief stop halfway down for a fag and a rest, our progress through the Back Braes was uneventful. I’m pretty sure we were all relieved when we reached the top of McIver’s Brae and could see the esplanade laid out before us. We descended the brae, crossed the esplanade and stood at the low stone wall overlooking the shore. It was on that very spot, with the giant structure of the Forth Railway Bridge looming in the background, that the Burryman and his attendants had stood posing for photographs every August for a hundred years. Those photographs had become the iconic image of the Ferry found in tourist books and brochures and websites all over the world.

And now it was the turn of the Fenian Burryman and his attendants – Muldy, Lenny and me, the scamsters and reprobates. Sure enough, the tourists came in their droves. While Billy and company didn’t miss the opportunity to milk them for donations, we posed for a long time as their cameras clicked and flashed and whirred. Then it was time for the procession to go, to walk that final, triumphant couple of hundred yards to the Forth.

The extra attention from the tourists had lifted our spirits. They were to be raised even higher when we came alongside the Anchor pub at the beginning of the High Street. Totally unexpectedly, the landlord and regulars there invited us all in for a drink. It seemed that the Hibs supporters were delighted that we had succeeded in putting one over on the hated Bluenoses along the street.

After several pints and lots of backslapping in the Anchor, we were back on the road. Having been downing nips and pints again, Muldy was more than a wee bit wobbly by then, so the task of supporting him had become even harder. My arms and legs were aching, my feet were sore and I was very hungry. But I felt good.

It must have been about six o’clock. We were heading towards the setting sun, which resembled a giant red disc sinking behind the road bridge. As we passed the Town Hall on our right, I caught sight of the two big wooden flower tubs on either side of the steps leading up to its entrance. The tubs appeared much barer than usual, as if they had been vandalised. That was when I realised where Muldy’s lilies and marigolds had come from.

Then the Forth came into view. I threw my head back and laughed, the sun’s rays bathing my face.